Mahoney, Gene

Diposit Digital de Documents de la UAB

CHARLES OLSONNot the nightingale perched on Orpheus' skull,Not the firebird that fumes in the volcano's mouth,Not the eagle Caesar parades at Circus Maximus,Not the vulture pecking at Prometheus' liver,Not the Bantam cock bristling in the pine-woods,Not the falcon drowsing in Byzantium,Not the peacock caged in Kore's winter palace,Not the swan in heat that straddles a painted paradise, Not Shiva's hawk screeching in the clouds above CarmelPointNot the crested god chiseled into the Mayan Calendar, Not the gull gliding inland over Famine's corrugatedriverNot even crow, old black wing, King of Carrion,Rather this ragged crane from Gloucester spearing frogsin cold hell, in thicketBY-PRODUCTSI make my living hustling herring heads and ground-up lobster shells —Crustacea pulverized into a one percent paste.In Prospect Harbor, I listen to the dubious tales of Down East fishermen as they radio in their catches. Every bait dealer is a cut-throat customer.What can't be sold off becomes compost or is trucked south to a rendering plant.I recall when fish scales were a commodity; now they're swept into chlorinated drains.The sardine business requires guts, brains and luck.Bad weather, sudden temperature shifts in the NorthAtlanticand a thousand other unpredictable factors come intoplay.It all boils down to making use of whatever it is that you've got at hand.UNDER THE WEATHERThe North Atlantic swells with heavy rains, high tide, a full moon and gale force winds.There are no crossings from Woods Hole.The Steamship Authority lashes down the ferries. Breakers assault the sand-bagged road to Edgartown. A rusted-out pickup truck weaves up-Island, its windshield shattered by a fallen branch. Uprooted trees screech in the State Forest.The wind slaps plate glass,54sandblasts Dutch Boy from window sills, strips shingles from saltbox houses in Chilmark.Moorings labor in Lambert's Cove.The sea claws the Gay Head Cliffs.A hurricane slams ashore at Squibnocket.Down-Island sewers roil, Five Corners backs up, waves push into the post office parking lot.A man in oil skins rows across Water Street.A lover's roof leaks on the Chop, the power shuts off. At the Lamp Post,in a candle-lit end-of-the-world atmosphere, nurses and firemen dance barefoot till dawn.—  Gene MahoneyVineyard Haven MAA BRIEF HISTORY OF THE INCAThe Inca became the Inca when the Conquistadors arrived and mispronounced the Inca's real name: the Tahuantinsuyo. A rather large mispronunciation, true, but then again, the Spanish thought they were in China.A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE INCA PART TWOWhen Pizarro arrived in Peru he found an empire of twelve million Inca that had mastered brain surgery, bronze tools, gold engravings, terraced farming, quipas, and polygonal masonry. Then Pizarro massacred them all.A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE INCA PART THREEFifteen centuries before Christ, Andean Indians construct­ed a city as glorious as Athens. Black granite pyramids, white granite temples, sewer systems, aqueducts, amphi­theaters, labyrinths, sacrificial altars —  these all ex­hausted centuries in their construction. But the Indians, unlike the Greeks, were wise enough to leave their city and abandon it forever.—  Matt BuysIndianapolis IN55

By-Products

https://ddd.uab.cat/pub/wormwood/wormwood_a1996v36n2i142/wormwood_a1996v36n2i142p54.pdf

By-Products

Abstract

Similar works

Full text

Available Versions

Diposit Digital de Documents de la UAB